


Pig Shit to a Hog Farmer

by Frayach



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Business, Canon Compliant, Celebratory Fuck, M/M, Season/Series 02
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-04
Updated: 2015-09-04
Packaged: 2018-04-19 01:14:48
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,163
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4727225
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frayach/pseuds/Frayach
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Brian lands another account.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Pig Shit to a Hog Farmer

**Author's Note:**

> I've always wanted to imagine Brian's typical client dinner . . .

Brian is in the bar when Larry Best sweeps in from the January night, his wool coat carrying the frigid darkness inside its folds. He lets the host’s assistant take it from him and then looks around until he spots Brian in the gangster-era gloom. Brian unhurriedly sets his glass of whiskey on the bar and holds out his hand.

“Mr. Best,” he said, clapping the man on the shoulder. “Glad you could join me.”

Mr. Best nodded and glanced about at the dark wood and gleaming brass.

“Nice place,” he said. “You take all your prospective clients here?”

Brian grinned sharkily. “Only the ones I want to impress,” he said with off-putting candidness.

Mr. Best laughed at the naked flattery.

“I like you, Kinney,” he said. “I’m glad I’m not facing an evening with Ryder. The man’s good at his job, but otherwise he’s one of the most boring men I’ve ever met.”

Brian laughed a genuine laugh. It was true. Ryder had three topics of conversation: business, business and business.

“Shall we go to our table?” Brian asked. “Or have a drink here first?”

“Our table. I’m starving. Chewing the ass off my accountant is hungry work.”

Brian bit back a grin. “Chewing ass.” He’d have to remember that. The boys would find it amusing.

“It’s hard finding good help these days,” he commiserated.

Larry Best grunted his agreement.

Their table was in the back, but not so close that you could hear the muffled voices of the cooks in the kitchen. It was situated in a corner with benches on both sides, the type of table designed for business talk – intimate but also not. A couple would never be seated there.

Best slid his hefty bulk across the black leather upholstery. He was a big man, somewhere in his mid-fifties, balding but not entirely hideous. Brian regarded him with a cool, disinterested gaze. Best was a man’s man – it was going to be sports and yacht talk all evening.

“We’ve got a joint like this back in Parkersburg,” he said, and Brian winced at the term. “Joint?” A “joint” was a diner or a happy hour watering hole. Not one of Pittsburgh’s finest, most expensive restaurants. So maybe there’d be no yacht talk after all. Brian perused his mental list of stereotypes. Blue-collar background. Oldest son, the only one of multiple siblings to go to college. A self-made man with gritty roots. It could be worse. Last week, the guy had been blue-blood through and through. Second home. Country clubs. Resort vacations.

“Best steaks in town,” Brian said. He held up a finger to get the handsome waiter’s attention. Being obviously gay, it wasn’t difficult.

“Bring us a bottle of your best Merlot,” Brian said without the slightest hint of flirtatiousness.

“See the Penguins are wrapping it up this year,” Best said, loosening his tie. “What’s the new coach's name again?

“Jack Barns,” Brian replied. “He was with the Flyers for eleven years. Assistant coach. Started out a defenseman but moved to right wing.”

“Really? That’s an unusual transition.”

“He lost weight. Didn’t have the bulk anymore. He wasn’t the best player, but he’s a good coach. The Penguins aren’t just about defensive play anymore.”

“Not that defensive play hasn’t served you well. You probably wouldn’t have won the Stanley last year with a different strategy.”

“True, but you gotta mix it up. We don’t want to become too predictable.”

“True, true.”

Their hockey blah-blah was interrupted when the hot waiter returned and opened the bottle Brian had ordered. He poured some in a glass and handed it to Brian who swished it, sniffed it and declared it “acceptable.” 

“I’m a baseball man, myself,” Best said. “I keep up with the hockey, but it’s never been my thing. I’ve got a kid who plays second base for his high school team. He wanted to play hockey, too, but his mother didn’t want him losing teeth.”

Oh God. Kids. Already.

“Here he is at the last game of the season – turned out to be a double-header.”

Best took a photo out of his wallet and handed it to Brian. 

“Scholarship?” 

“Michigan State.”

“Not bad.”

“His mother wanted Ohio, but their team’s not as good. He’s her baby. She didn’t want him to go so far away.”

They chuckled conspiratorially. Women. Can’t live with ‘em, can’t live without ‘em.

“You got kids?”

Brian shook his head. “Not married,” he said.

Larry arched an eyebrow. “Why not? You’re handsome, successful.”

“Haven’t found the right one yet,” Brian replied.

Larry guffawed. “Well, hold out,” he said. “That’s what I tell my eldest. No use settling down till you have to.”

Brian twitched a smile at him. Indeed.

They turned their attention to the menu, and Brian recommended the rib-eye. It was a surefire bet. Clients loved it. He, himself, ordered the fillet mignon, but not the one he really wanted with the shitake mushrooms and gorgonzola. Too . . . gay.

“Well done,” Larry said when the waiter asked, and Brian winced. What a waste of a good steak.

“Medium rare,” he said. “Seared. And mashed potatoes. Hold the garlic.”

Larry laughed. “Don’t want garlic on your breath when you make your pitch?”

Brian smiled. The guy was right.

“So,” Larry said, downing his glass. Brian poured him a new one. “You a local boy?”

“East Side high school, Carnegie Melon,” Brian replied.

“Majored in business?”

“Business and communications.”

Larry grunted. “In my day, we didn’t have ‘communications.’ All you needed was to learn how to play golf and join a blasted country club.”

Brian laughed a genuine laugh. “You golf, then?” he asked.

“Every Goddamn weekend,” Larry said. “You?”

Brian bit his lip before answering. “Every other.” He noticed he always bit his lip when he lied.

“So,” Larry said. “Let’s talk business. Your agency’s got an excellent reputation . . .”

Brian raised his glass before taking a sip in acknowledgement of Larry’s remark.

“. . . but your work’s a bit . . . how shall I put it? Citified.”

Brian could barely suppress an eye roll. “Citified?” Christ.

“Pakersburg’s hardly a backwater,” he replied, biting his lip again. Actually, in his opinion, all of fucking West Virginia was a backwater full of hillbillies and OxyContin users.

Larry practically beamed. It was clear he had a bit of an inferiority complex. Brian took careful note of the fact.

“How long have you lived in Parkersburg?” he asked.

“Born and bred,” Larry replied proudly. “My whole family’s still in town. Got half of ‘em working for me.”

He guffawed.

Brian did his best to steer the conversation away from business while they ate. One of the things he’d learned was that most people can’t listen and chew steak at the same time.

“This is good,” Larry said around a mouthful of rib-eye, and Brian winced. Yuck.

“Like I said,” he replied. “Best place in the city.”

Larry winked and went back to sawing at his poor, abused steak.

“So you a blonde or brunette man?” Larry asked.

Brian bit back a laugh. Clients always asked that question, and then before you could answer, they were whipping out a picture of their blonde trophy wife. Larry was no different.

“High school sweetheart,” he said, handing Brian a picture of an unnaturally tan woman. Brian check off his mental list: blonde? Check. Lots of makeup? Check. Palm trees in the background? Check. Strained smile? Check.

“Very nice,” Brian said with a wink and handed back the photo to Larry.

Larry beamed again. Thankfully, he didn’t follow up on his question. Brian would’ve answered “blond” and gotten a nod of approval. Yuck. Although, it was amusing to think of Justin with his sweaty blond hair and semi-conscious beatific expression as Brian fucked the living Christ out of him.

When Larry excused himself and headed to the men’s room to “take a leak,” Brian took out his phone and called Mikey. It was a time-honored tradition.

“Is he gay?” Michael asked when he answered the phone.

“If only,” Brian replied.

“Is he hot?”

“Not in the slightest.”

“Did you talk sports?”

“Of course.”

“Penguins, pirates or Panthers?”

“Penguins.”

“Did he show you family photos?”

“Yup.”

“How many?”

“Two.”

“Golf?”

“Of course?”

“Pink golf slacks?”

“No, thank God.”

“What’re you wearing?”

“Charcoal grey, blue tie.”

“No pinstripes?”

“Too over-the-top.”

“Oh, so not that big an account.”

“Nope.”

“Local?”

“Parkersburg.”

Michael laughed.

Out of the corner of his eye, Brian saw Larry approach. Brian pretended he didn’t notice.

“Tell him he’ll have to wait till tomorrow,” Brian said to Mikey. “I’m with an important client.”

Mikey cracked-up.

“But, Mr. Kinney, they need a spread by Wednesday.”

Brian bit back a laugh. He’d have to chastise Mikey for the use of “spread.”

“Tell them to talk to my assistant. Christ, Bob, I can’t move around my schedule on a moment’s notice. I’m a busy man.”

Mikey was laughing too hard to answer. For some reason being called “Bob” put him in hysterics.

“Bye, Bob,” Brian said and hung-up without waiting for a response.

Larry was looking like the king of the world when he squeezed into the booth again. Obviously, he’d overheard Brian’s “important client” remark.

“Scotch or sherry?” Brian asked him.

“Scotch, of course,” Larry replied.

“My kind of man.”

Brian signaled the waiter again, cleared his throat and readied himself for some serious metaphorical ass kissing. Four scotches later, Ryder Agency had a new account.

“‘Member,” Larry said, slurring slightly. “Nothing citified.”

“Nope,” Brian replied without even a hint of a slur. He could drink a whole bottle of Scotch and barely feel it. It was the only useful skill he’d learned from Jack. “You’re the client.”

Larry guffawed. “My wish is your command.”

Brian smiled at him thinly.

“Lots of cows and mountains and happy families,” he said, barely bothering to hide his derision.

“You got it,” Larry said cheerfully. “Good ol’ corn-fed, country values.”

You’re selling hardware equipment, Brian wanted to say. You should have two bull dykes wielding screw drivers with a Subaru in the background. God, he hated the country! Too many bugs and plants that make you itch.

When the waiter brought the check to their table, Brian scribbled a note on it asking the waiter to tell the host to call a car. Nothing impressed a client more than having a car waiting for him before he could even put on his coat. He took out his company credit card and handed it to the waiter with a subtle wink. The waiter blushed.

Brian walked Larry out front to his waiting car and shook his hand. Another boring as shit night, another boring as shit account.

“You’re quite the salesman, Kinney,” Larry said, clapping Brian on the shoulder. “I’ve got a feeling you could sell pig shit to a hog farmer.”

Brian snorted. That was a good one. If there was one thing you could depend on a country bumpkin for it was colorful similes. 

“Night,” Larry said, easing himself into the backseat. “See you tomorrow.”

Brian raised his hand in farewell. The driver closed Larry’s door, and got in the front seat, put the car in gear and drove off.

Brian released a huge sigh of relief – not only because another torturous client dinner was over, but because he’d landed the account. He didn’t handle failure well . . . at all. Everyone around him paid for it for at least a week. Justin worst of all.

 

Justin looked up from the computer apprehensively when Brian closed the door behind him and started taking off his coat.

“How’d it go?” he asked, and Brian’s heart grew heavy at the nervous tone in his voice.

“Nailed it,” he replied.

Justin’s anxious expression broke into a grin. He stood up and walked over to Brian. Brian put his arms around and pulled him close, kissing him feverishly. He was hard. He’d been hard from the second he got in his Jeep. Justin reached down and cupped his straining cock in his hand.

“Mmmm,” he purred against Brian’s mouth. “Was he hot?”

Brian snorted. “No, but the waiter was,” he replied.

“Did you fuck him?” Justin asked, his breathing quickening. 

“I wish.”

“Good. I want you all to myself.”

Brian bristled . . . but only slightly.

“Well, I’m yours,” he said and smiled into their kiss when he felt Justin’s fist tighten in his hair and his kiss deepen from desire into need. “What’re you going to do with me?”

“Suck your cock.”

“And then?”

“Impale myself on it.”

“And then?”

“Give you a hand job in the shower.”

“And then?”

Justin cracked up. “And then I’ll watch you fall asleep.”

Brian rolled his eyes, but it was okay. Justin could watch him fall asleep if he wanted to – if that would make him happy, because as much as he’d wanted to please Larry tonight, he wanted to please Justin even more.

“Sounds good,” he said, taking Justin’s hand and leading him to the bedroom. “So, what’re you waiting for?”


End file.
